


Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Loved Detective

by Strange_johnlock



Series: Broken and Loved [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Boys Kissing, Caretaking, Communication, Family, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Honeymoon, Husbands, Idiots in Love, John Watson is a Good Boyfriend, Just Married, Kissing, M/M, Marriage, Oral Sex, Overcoming Trauma, Parenthood, Past Drug Use, Romance, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, Sleepy Sex, So Married, So much kissing, Tender Sex, Top John Watson, Topping from the Bottom, back to 221b
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:09:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21585904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strange_johnlock/pseuds/Strange_johnlock
Summary: “Tired?” John’s voice vibrates through his body, as he rests his mouth against Sherlock’s forehead and all Sherlock gives as an answer is a low hum and a nudge of his nose against his husband’s cheek until John leans down for a kiss.John does, what he does best: Taking care of Sherlock Holmes
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Broken and Loved [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555729
Comments: 37
Kudos: 166





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm running out of ways to say how grateful I am for Amelia, who beta reads and also listens to me whine. Thank you, dear!

**Then**

John doesn’t really notice. He is busy, organising the move, all while handling his one-year-old daughter and a boring job. A young family is buying the house, mom, dad, two kids and a dog, like it should be, and John, Sherlock knows, can’t wait to get back to Baker Street.

It isn’t the first time in their friendship that they don’t see each other for weeks – he called as often as he could, this time- and maybe John thinks the case in Inverness is just an excuse for Sherlock to not have to be part of the hustle and bustle a move entails. Instead, for twenty-one days, Sherlock gets clean.

He is not an addict, he is a user, and maybe that is what every addict says. And maybe he could just stop, not ever use cocaine again and live on, as if he never had, but he wants to do it right this time.

This is their second chance, there will be no other.

John is trying so hard. Sherlock knows how difficult therapy is for a man who doesn’t trust easily, who hates talking about himself. And maybe, the anger is John’s addiction that he is learning to refrain from.

He has been at a low point like this before, at twenty-four, and back then, there had been no John, no best friend to motivate him to get clean for. Still, he had managed, at the third attempt. So, maybe in comparison, this is a walk in the park.

Only, it doesn’t feel like one. His body feels drained, and all he wants is one of those soft smiles form John, then a warm bath, and sleep. Maybe Rosie is still awake. He has just seen her over skype, and he wants to hold her against his chest, as she babbles.

There is no way to measure, who of them is carrying the heavier burden, who hurt the other more, and Sherlock has considered if leaving John would be easier for both of them, would give them space to heal. But John is like the sun, and Sherlock knows he will always be pulled back into his orbit, now or in ten, twenty, thirty years.

He hates rehab, but he hates johnless life more, has hated every moment in those two years he travelled the world to destroy Moriarty’s web, cutting loose string after string. The time after he returned to London were worse, seeing John with Mary, seeing them happy. A naïve part of his brain had imagined surprise, a smile, confessions of love. Instead, John’s anger had hit him as hard as John’s fists.

Sherlock’s fists, now, are closed around the handle of his small duffle back, as he looks up at the dimly lit windows of 221B. His heart thuds in his chest at the thought of John and Rosie, waiting for him upstairs. They won’t be guests in his home anymore, as they have been for too long and suddenly his legs can’t carry him up the stairs fast enough. He bursts into the flat through the kitchen door and finds himself in front of a surprised John Watson. They are parted by the table, stacked with dishes. John places the plate he has just been drying off on it and smiles. It’s one of those small smiles, that takes place mostly in John’s eyes. It’s in Sherlock’s top five of John’s smiles.

“You’re home.”

And Sherlock is. With John here, doing something as simple as cleaning up the kitchen as he has done so many times before, there is no better place to be than 221B Baker Street, London, United Kingdom. Sherlock can scientifically proof that if necessary.

“So are you.” He drops the bag carelessly on the closest chair. And there is another small smile, which Sherlock mirrors on instinct.

“We are. I just managed to get some space for Rosie’s food down here.” John points to one of the cupboards. “And I put your biscuits up there, so she doesn’t get to them.”

“That’s just mean.” Sherlock walks around the desk to check on his ginger nuts, jammy dodgers and Mrs. Hudson’s chocolate chip biscuits, which John has neatly stashed at eye level. Always so thoughtful, his John. He steals a ginger nut and puts it in his mouth, before shutting the cupboard door again.

“I’m a mean person, in general.” John smirks, but there is something dark in his eyes, like he isn’t fully joking, and Sherlock feels the urge to hold him, to stroke his hair and tell him how amazing he is, until John Watson finally believes it.

That is not how emotions work, Sherlock knows -has learned- that much. Instead, he blurts out what has been on the tip of his tongue since the moment he entered the flat. “There was no case in Inverness.”

John raises an eyebrow in surprise, not about the non-existent case, but about the confession. Sherlock watches the doctor dry his hands and step a little closer. “It’s been a bit much, the past few weeks, I get that. Thanks for calling us, though. Rosie always asked about you.” And there is no anger in his voice or reflected in the lines on his face. He looks tired, exhausted by days of moving stuff from one end of London to the other, carrying boxes up two flights of stairs and handling an eighteen-month old.

“I know, my timing was less than perfect, John, but I needed to…”

“It’s alright.” John smiles again, as he starts to put away the dishes. And Sherlock realises that John doesn’t want to hear about Sherlock taking some time off, as if the Watsons moving into his flat- their flat- is not the most important thing that has happened in months, more crucial than any case could have been. John needs to know that. Sherlock needs to find the words to tell him, make it clear and eradicate all doubt. Making a speech,

“I got clean, John.” Sherlock forces himself to look up from his arms and into his best friend’s face that turns soft, as John processes what he has just heard.

“Oh, Sherlock.” And his name, said like this, is all Sherlock needs to hear.

“I didn’t tell you, in case I failed. Which is stupid, because there was no chance I would let myself not be successful in this. I know, it takes a lot of trust for you to move in here with your daughter, and I want to be deserving of that trust.” Sherlock keeps himself from biting his lips, not wanting to seem unsure, or nervous, and straightens his shoulders instead.

“I do trust you, I did, before, or else I wouldn’t have moved in, you idiot.” John says, softly, his voice heavy with emotion. Sherlock’s brain tries to observe and catalogue them all, which has always been something he struggled with. John’s face is so expressive, mirroring what he feels, but John can also feel so many things at once and it is hard to put words to that. Sherlock takes a breath, shoving away all the input his brain is getting, focusing on the most prominent emotion.

Fondness. John looks so fond, and how can Sherlock not step forward and cup his face, taking in every line, the shape of the doctor’s mouth and the sparkle in his eyes, to store away in his mind palace, and he has to be quick, as the expression slowly fades into one of wonder.

They don’t usually touch, not intentionally, and Sherlock takes in the pleasant surprise just as much as willingly as the fondness as he brushes his thumbs along John’s cheek bones.

“Thank you.” John whispers, those eyes, bluest of blue, midnight sky blue, look up at Sherlock. The detective knows it is not only about telling him. It’s about getting clean, for the Watsons’ and for Sherlock himself, for trying to get better. It’s gratefulness, for letting them move back in, for giving them a home when the house has not been one for months. And Sherlock wants to tell him that Sherlock should be the one to be grateful, to have them in his life, to get a chance to prove himself. Those words could never be enough, though, to express how full his heart is.

Instead, Sherlock leans down to press his lips to John’s. A noise of surprise escapes the doctor, and Sherlock does not have the knowledge or experience to interpret whether it is good or bad, which sends him into a state close to a panic.

He had been so sure. The casual touches over the past months, the shared smiles and the way John had allowed Sherlock to hold him, whenever he had felt overwhelmed. And Sherlock thought they could spend the rest of their lives together like that, with no one to come in between them ever again. This, and more.

But what if he had been wrong about that? What if Sherlock just projected his own feelings onto John? What if this is their first and only kiss?

Sherlock needs to take in every detail, so he can save it in a vault in his mind palace, where it can never be deleted from. He starts with what he is feeling. The doctor’s lips are a little dry, but wonderfully warm. They are moving slightly, the pressure against Sherlock’s mouth changing ever so slightly with every twitch of the tender skin. Sherlock can feel his John’s breath against his skin and the starting stubble as he cups his cheeks in his large hands. Their bodies are not touching, otherwise, but they are close enough that the detective can sense the warmth of John’s body through two layers of clothing.

Sherlock wants to wrap his arms around him, pull their chest together and comb his fingers through the hair on John’s neck, but then, his brain is already busy taking in all the sensations.

He can smell the dish soap, and the faint residue of the dinner the Watsons had, basil and tomato. Mostly, though, he can smell John, a mixture of skin, sweat, shower gel and laundry detergent. Somehow, it all accumulated into perfection. Would John allow him to press his nose into his armpits, his inner thighs, were the smells promised to be more intense? He could catalogue every element that makes up John Watson on an olfactory level. Would it be rude to ask?

Sherlock notes to find out. The internet is full of research material on everything love and sexuality. For now, he continues to take in every detail available. He can’t see much, from here, but the sides of John’s nose, his cheeks and a glimpse of golden lashes.

They reveal depths of blue, as John opens his eyes, and Sherlock stiffens as he feels him pull back. This can’t be over, yet. If this is their only kiss, it can’t be over after only seconds.

John isn’t going far, and there is a smile tugging at his mouth. “Hey,” He says softly, and Sherlock feels strong arms wrap around his back. John is even warmer now, as they stand chest to chest, and his fingers are dancing against the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt, just at the hip.

That, Sherlock supposes, must be a good sign. John isn’t pushing him away, disgusted or apologetic, but holding him close. “Close your eyes, love.” John says, and it is barely more than a whisper. “It’s more fun that way.”

And Sherlock does.

His eyes remain closed, as John kisses him, mouth hot and soft and clever. It is a thrill, not to be able to predict each of John’s movements, to give up one sense to focus on just feeling. John’s fingers move up his sides, over his shoulders and along his neck, until small, perfect hands rest against the detective’s cheek.

Sherlock learns quickly, sucking John’s upper lip between his own, brushing his mouth over the tender skin. He never wants to stop, now that they have started. He wants to fuse himself to John, melt their bodies into one and crawl beneath the doctor’s skin. He wonders if that is a bit not good, or if all people in love feel that way.

In love.

He is so in love with John Watson and he can’t pinpoint the moment when that started. He just knows it would never end. Every adventure, every heart break, has made him more sure of how much he needs John, to a point where it almost destroyed him. This kiss makes it all worth it somehow. And isn’t that something a drama queen would say?

His eyes remain closed, when their kisses die down and John rests his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. And Sherlock holds him, resting his nose against his temple. The hair, where it meets the spot behind John’s ear, is still damp from the shower he took earlier, and it smells of citron and sage. Sherlock tucks his head closer against the doctor’s neck, not caring how he has to bend his back to do so.

John holds him, his hands drawing circles onto his shoulders. **** He whispers, and Sherlock wraps his arms around his best friend tighter.

“They will surely give you your money back.” Those are the first words that leave the detective’s mouth, and he knows too well how John’s forehead must get all those lovely lines.

“What do you mean?”

“For the folding screen.”

John pulls back now, just a bit, and Sherlock opens his eyes to look at him, then. It is the best possible thing to see, night blue eyes, that adorable nose, that kissable mouth. They excuse how much of an idiot John is being right now.

“That you won’t need, because you’ll move into my room, of course.”

John raises an eyebrow, then chuckles. And he moves his belongings downstairs the next morning.


	2. Chapter 2

The following week is, what he would so far describe as the best time in his life. There is a case, a suspected werewolf running around ripping people’s necks open. In reality, there is just a poor dog so violently mistreated by his owner, but still so horribly loyal that it followed his command to kill. And what fun it was to proof the dog had not just turned crazy, but four young men were dead because of a horror-movie obsessed animal abuser.

And then there was John, in his-their- bed every night, his strong arms wrapped around him, and there are soft kisses and brushing touches. On Sunday night they watch some stupid children’s movie with Rosie, and Sherlock has his head in John’s lap and Rosie curled against his chest, and the doctor is combing his fingers through his hair, slowly lulling Sherlock to sleep.

And when Rosie is in bed, there are more kisses, turning more and more passionate the more they get to know what the other likes, the longer they hold back. But John wants to wait, has whispered into Sherlock’s ear how he will make love to him all night, has promised that his first time wouldn’t be awkward but perfect, the doctor confident in his skills as a lover.

Sherlock finds himself nervous and excited, the arousal that John awakens in him never finding release, and he is quite desperate to find out how it will feel to have it pulled to the surface by John’s fingers and mouth and cock.

It feels wonderful, he learns one night, after a dinner by the fireplace, finds out how John kisses his body, sets his skin on fire with sure hands and teases him open with clever fingers.

It’s over, when John goes ridgid, turns away and finally leaves Sherlock alone in their bed, sweat cooling on his skin, fear gripping at his heart. Not only is he worried for John, who clearly just suffered from a panic attack and is walking the streets of London but for their shared future, threatened by a past that is deeply ingrained in both their lives. That night, Sherlock swears to himself to not give in to the fear, to fight for John, as he has always done. And it might be more difficult, because it is not a matter of his brain, but of his heart, an organ he trusts less, has less experience with.

John is worth it.

And Sherlock pushes his own fear aside, for a moment, so he can be strong for John.

Over the next months, he learns to be careful in his touches, he learns to communicate and to bite back, he learns that John is more stubborn than Sherlock could have ever imagined. He experiences how people can hurt each other unintentionally, in trying to be considerate, and that relationships are something that builds over time, even with a yearlong friendship as a basis. He has to be patient, which he has always considered impossible and considerate, which he would never do for anyone but a Watson.

He also learns that loving Rosie is easy, even when she is not, sulking and crying through the night, sometimes. Sherlock grows used to taking care of her, finds her routines fit perfectly well into his life and John’s, until he realises that he is raising her in a way that goes beyond godfather.

John isn’t passive in all of this. He goes to therapy, after trying to force change doesn’t work, he learns his own body in a different way and let’s Sherlock experience the beauty of taking care of John Watson. Sherlock discovers the places John likes to be touched, the way he enjoys Sherlock’s dominance where a woman might be more contained. As the first person, the first man, he enters John’s body, feels him tight around him, clenching, hears his pants and moans as he is being thrust into. In all his fantasies, Sherlock has always seen himself on the receiving end, has pressed his fingers into himself in lonely nights imagining them to be John’s. Never did he think John might enjoy penetration.

He does, and so does Sherlock. To share pleasure with John, to have him hot with arousal instead of cold with fear, to touch and tease him, to make him his, all of it and every single time, make Sherlock more confident that their love can survive their difficult past. He never asks for more.

Until their wedding night, when he leaves a sleeping John in the hotel bed and in the dim light of the bathroom, presses first his fingers, then a plug into himself, before he returns to his husband, and for the first time, John Watson makes love to him.


	3. Chapter 3

** Now **

“Turn left here.” Sherlock points at the traffic light ahead of them.

“Left? But the navigation system says…” John starts but sets the indicator anyway. “Also, London is just thirty kilometres…” He interrupts himself again, as he looks over his shoulder and turns.

“We’re not going to London.” Sherlock shifts a bit in his seat to look at his husband. They have been married a week ago exactly, now, and on their way back from their honeymoon. Sherlock had enjoyed their time out in nature more than he would have imagined, chasing after Rosie, hiking in the woods. It was time for just the three of them, no distracting calls or deductions.

“Where are we going, then?” John glances at the street sign.

“Mummy called me last night.” Sherlock turns, finding Rosie asleep in her seat, stuffed cat pressed to her chest.

“And offered for Rosie to stay for the weekend? Your parents are coming to London for … Mathilda, was it?”

Sherlock leans back in his seat, face turned to take in every detail of John visible from this position. Through the years, more lines have appeared on the doctor’s face, and Sherlock knows he has caused many of them. Some, and has he ever done anything more important, are lines of laughter.

“I have to inform you, my John, that I find it to be very attractive when you are being clever.”

And how John smiles at that, just a blink of teeth before the doctor turns his head to switch lanes.

“A rare treat, then.” He looks at Sherlock just for a moment, so young in his teasing.

“That is a cross I have to bear.” Sherlock counters, and stretches his legs a bit, and just looks at his husband, his handsome, clever, strong doctor. His gaze wanders from his face down this neck, where tanned sin disappears behind the lapels of another horrid button-down shirt that does not do justice to the broad shoulders and muscular arms hidden beneath. He follows the horrid pattern down to the elbows, where the sleeves are rolled up. John got a tan on their holiday, skin glowing as golden as the day they first met, and John’s perfect hands, now wrapped loosely around the steering wheel, remind Sherlock this morning, when they pulled at Sherlock’s cock, as the doctor pressed him against the bathroom wall.

They haven’t had penetrative sex again after their wedding night, with Rosie refusing to sleep in her own hotel bed in the unfamiliar environment. Sherlock can’t be mad at her, but he is glad for Mummy’s offer to take care of the little one for the weekend. His parents love their grand-daughter, and Rosie loves getting spoiled by them.

And Sherlock can’t wait to be fucked by John Watson, again. They took a large step that night, after John’s insecurity has slowly melted away after weeks and months of therapy, intimacy and most importantly, love.

Sherlock has been patient, which usually goes against his nature, but was easy knowing it would help John. But now that he knows how John feels inside him, his hot girth pressed deep into the detective’s body, Sherlock wants more. He wants John.

He prepared himself in the bathroom with a plug, slowly and carefully, worried that John having to do that would leave too much time for the doctor to think and find himself sucked into the maelstrom of another anxiety attack. Their encounter, Sherlock riding John’s length, had been short but intense, and Sherlock wants more. Clearing his throat, he switches in his seat, trying to convince certain body parts that this is an inappropriate time for an erection.

“And why am I always the last to learn about decisions you make?” John says, but Sherlock can hear the smile in his words. John loves him, not in spite of his rudeness, but because of it and Sherlock knows how lucky he is. And even if John will never believe him, Sherlock will never see him as broken, but always as a human, the best and wisest at that.

“Because I am an arsehole.” He just says, and it earns him another smile from John.

“So, a weekend of just the two of us, then? Right turn here, right?”

“Yes. And yes.” Sherlock says, without looking at the street, just briefly checking on Rosie to make sure she is still asleep “We have a week of sex to catch up on.”

“Good thing Mrs. Hudson is going to visit her sister, then.” John grins, and his hand comes to rest on Sherlock’s thigh, warm and strong and the detective can’t wait to get back to London, to their flat and their bed.

* * *

Rosie cried for half an hour after waking up, and neither of the four adults around her was sure she would want to stay in Sussex. But Mummy’s and Dad’s new puppy, Mira, was too much of a fascination and when they left, all they got from their little girl was a distracted wave.

And Sherlock feels heartbroken to leave her behind. As soon as the car gets from the gravel to the road, he feels a sudden dread, it takes him about thirty seconds – he is really getting old- to realise has to do with him being parted from Rosie for the first time in a long time. Yes, he is looking forward to a weekend with John, it was partly his idea after all, but he has gotten so used to shared breakfasts and lullabies, that he will surely be irritated by their absence.

John, his lever John, senses his distress and reaches out to put his hand back on Sherlock’s thigh, and it is a comforting touch this time, closer to Sherlock’s knee.

“Sucks being a parent, doesn’t it?” John says, his attempt at humour slightly overshadowed by his own emotions and Sherlock feels immediately relieved that he is not yet again a freak for what he feels.

“It is irrational to miss her, when we saw her three minutes ago.” He says, not looking at John, but at the road ahead.

“Hmm, I know, it’s confusing. I feel sad because we won’t see her for more than twenty-four hours, happy, because she gets to spend time with her grandparents, whom she loves, and a bit horny, already, because I get to have you all to my own.”

Sherlock can see him wink out of the corner of his eye, as John takes his hand away to turn right towards London and Baker Street.

“It sucks, being a parent.” The detective parrots, winking back, and the dull feeling in his chest has already lifted a bit.

“Yeah, why did we ever apply for that job?”

“Just sort of happened, I guess.”

They turn at the same time, to grin at the other and Sherlock wants to press his nose against John’s neck and smell him, but he would rather not have his doctor collide with a tree due to this distraction.

“We could talk about tonight.” John brushes a strand of hair out of his face. It is growing longer again; which Sherlock asked John for –and very politely at that- for their wedding. Sherlock likes it longer, because he can pull it, and combed back, John looks very strict, which is somehow very attractive. “We didn’t really do that on our wedding night.”

“I thought, it would be best to not give you room to overthink.” Sherlock turns, not wanting to look at John, even as he knows that open communication was what has made their relationship possible, has made it bloom.

“Didn’t mean that as criticism, love.” Sherlock knows, from the sound of John’s voice that he is not lying. “Just thought we should keep it up, and not fall back into our old patterns.”

“You are right.” Sherlock admits, and John barks a laugh. “Must have turned you on immensely, just now.”

“Indeed.” Now Sherlock is the one placing his fingers on the fabric of John’s jeans, rough and warm from where his doctor’s body heat seeps through. “Did you like it, then?”

John huffs another laugh, and Sherlock wonders, if the car is the best place to have a conversation like this, when John has to concentrate on driving. That problem is solved a moment later, when John turns the car onto the motorway, which promptly traps them in traffic and robs Sherlock of an immediate answer, as John swears for about two minutes, before just giving up and slumping against the window.

“Well, good time to talk, I guess.” He huffs and turns to Sherlock with the attempt of a smile. “There is no way out anyway.”

“Some could interpret this as a metaphor for marriage.” Sherlock jokes, earning another giggle. “Not us, of course.”

“’Course.” John moves the car about six feet, before stopping again and then, the smile slowly fading, starts talking again. “Back to your question. I… it means so much, that night, finally being able to do what I wanted to do for so long. What I think I should be able to do as a man.”

His face turns dark at the last part and Sherlock wants to kiss him until he forgets everything society has, over the years, instilled in him about masculinity.

“And I know I didn’t hold up long, because you fucked me so good before, and I was so close, when you … asked.” He feels the muscles of John’s thighs twitch, and if he would let his hands travel up just a bit… “Also, the thought of you pressing those long fingers inside you in the hotel bathroom, I mean, I know what they can do from first-hand experience.” He chuckles at his own innuendo.

“It did feel very good, thinking how maybe they would be replaced by something bigger and girthier.” Sherlock strokes his hand over his own thigh.

“Flatterer.” John licks his lips and Sherlock wonders if just leaning down and sucking his husband off in a traffic jam would be a bit not good. Before he can contemplate it more, John continues speaking.

“I think it was important for us, that we managed.” Sherlock senses, that there is more coming, by the way John avoids his gaze, his eyes focused on the road ahead, were the line of cars is barely making any progress. “I don’t think that means I’ll always be able to perform. We’re not twenty anymore, I’ve we’re being honest. But I’m confident in us, Sherlock.”

The doctor places his hand on Sherlocks, intertwining their fingers and Sherlock lifts both to kiss the wedding band. “I love you, John.” He simply says.

“Love you, too, Sher. Now, how about you call your brother, so he can do something about this traffic situation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a cold, and am using that as an excuse to just post chapers randomly :P


	4. *explicit*

It’s about six, when they reach London, the traffic hell incarnate, and the sex has been pushed to the back of Sherlock’s mind. He hates car rides. He prefers them to the tube, can tolerate them within a certain time limitation, but anything longer than an hour eats at his mind. On the way to their honeymoon, the had still buzzed with the excitement of having just married his best friend. Now, with no Rosie to entertain, and only ever the same faces around them to deduce, as the traffic slugs on. 

On the right, in their van, a couple in their mid-twenties, whose lives are boring enough for them to have decided to cover the fact up with tattoos and piercings, and drowning it out with loud, fast music that makes Sherlock’s head ache even through two sets of car doors. On the left, an elderly woman, her worst concern her dog waiting at home. 

Dull, dull, dull. 

Sherlock wants to get out of the car and run home, if he must, anything better than staying here. And he knows he is annoying John, with his restlessness, his constant complaining, but he just can’t hold back. He feels trapped, bored, he still feels the pain of being parted from Rosie, and he hasn’t had a case for over week. He can’t even answer emails from potential clients, because the internet connection is shit.

“Bad word.” Rosie and John say, in his mind, their Watson-eyes strict but loving and Sherlock has to smile at the thought.

“Booooored.” Sherlock practically yells, a few moments later, wanting to crash his phone in his bare fist just to hear it crack, to feel the shards pierce his skin. It’s not good, he knows that, and he has tried to get better at this, at dealing with his mind, his boredom.

He sees John’s pitiful, helpless smile, feels his hand on his shoulder, kneading the taut muscles, and he knows he should be grateful. Instead, he shrugs him off, turns away as best as he can in the tight space and stares at the odd couple.

Maybe, if he’d bang at the window, they’d notice him, and he could tell her about his affair with her sister. The fight, for a time at least, would be entertaining.

Instead, he keeps still.

Stares.

And somehow, it ends.

They make it to London; they make it home.

Mrs. Hudson welcomes them, her suitcase waiting in the hallway until her nephew is going to pick her up and they order food and watch Doctor Who, which both the doctor and their landlady love and Sherlock has learned not to criticize.

He only realises he has fallen asleep, head resting on John’s thigh, when the doctor moves below him. Mrs. Hudson is long gone, the tv and one of the small lamps the only sources of light.

“Hey there.” John smiles down at him, fingers brushing through Sherlock’s hair and he shivers pleasantly, his scalp sensitive, a fact that his husband is very aware of. “Let’s go to bed, yeah? Call it a night?”

All the restlessness is gone, Sherlock realises, replaces by a need to curl up in bed and sleep for at least a week. Maybe, he just could stay here, un the couch, because moving sounds like too much work. Instead, he lets John help him up.

They share the sink, as they get ready for bed, and while John calls Mummy to check up on Rosie, Sherlock undresses. He is shrugging off his boxer briefs, when he hears footsteps coming closer and a thud, as his husbands leans against the door frame.

“What a view.” John’s voice is dark, and Sherlock turns his head a bit to find that the doctor has his arms crossed in front of a naked chest, showing off his wonderful forearms. And Sherlock wants to curl up against him and have John pulled him close and hold him. The doctor picks up on his mood, turning to switch the main light off. As he crosses the room, Sherlock is already getting comfy under the duvet, body turned to the middle of the bed, so he can watch every one of his husband’s moves.

“You know what I’m going to do, for once? Sleep naked! Can’t do that with a toddler in the house.” John smiles and shrugs off his boxers, flinging them across the room, which makes Sherlock chuckle into the pillow.

The mattress dips, and Sherlock closes his eyes, as the doctor shifts to his side and places a hand on the detective’s hips, thumb rubbing slow circles onto the skin.

“Tired?” John’s voice vibrates through his body, as he rests his mouth against Sherlock’s forehead and all Sherlock gives as an answer is a low hum and a nudge of his nose against his husband’s cheek until John leans down for a kiss. Lips meet, lazily moving against each other, and by the time they part, Sherlock feels the tingle of arousal in his belly, not urgent but undoubtedly there. John’s hand has shifted on his skin, fingertips teasing him, until his palm finds its space on the small of his back. Lips trail down his chin, along his jaw and to his neck, where John sucks at the tender skin. Sherlock moans, lifting his hands to reach into silver hair, as he pulls the doctor even closer.

“Want me to take care of you?” The words, whispered against his ear, send shivers down Sherlock’s spine and he nods, as if on instinct.

And there is nothing he wants more than John taking care of him. John Watson has been taking care of him for years, not only by shooting people when it was convenient, but in the small, domestic things. Making sure he ate, and slept, defending his honour in front of Donavan and Anderson even when he thought Sherlock hadn’t heard their comments. He had been the best friend imaginable, when Sherlock was still figuring out what friendship meant. And maybe he hasn’t figured it out, still, but he tries so hard, for John. Tonight, he doesn’t have to try, because John just offered to take care of him.

Sherlock nods again, for emphasis, turning on his back to give John better access to his mouth, as they kiss, slow and wet and deep, John’s hands in his hair, tugging slightly, which sends shivers down his spine. He is torn between wanting to open his eyes and taking in every detail of his John, his beautiful John, who displays every flicker of emotion on his face so openly, and just not thinking for once, not collecting and cataloguing data, just giving in.

And then, John doesn’t give him a choice, as he takes him apart bit by bit. Bones part at the joints and break in half, tendons snap. It is his heart that gets the worst, chambers being pulled apart, blood rushing in.

There is no time for pain.

John Watson is a doctor, and for every touch that breaks, the one that follows heals, joins, sews together. Sherlock’s heart thuds in his chest, stronger every time it is put back together, fills up with blood and adoration for the man above, the man with the ocean eyes. He has been touched like this before, had John’s lips wrapped around him and his fingers pressed in, in, in. Not like this.

John, in every touch, is confident, and Sherlock loves John that way. He loved him before, loved him when he needed Sherlock to be strong for him, loved him when he had been the one to take care of his doctor. But like this, strong and self-assured in everything he does, John is beautiful, and Sherlock doesn’t have to open his eyes to see that.

He becomes aware of John speaking, through the haze of lust, and he looks at his husband.

“Do you want to come like this, my darling?”

Sherlock considers it, considers falling apart with John’s fingers stroking his insides, stretching him open, as John sucks the head of his cock into his mouth, into wet heat.

Sherlock needs more, today.

“No, please.” Sherlock reaches out for him, fingers disentangling from the sheets to welcome John’s body atop his own, and John kissed him deeply, his tongue licking inside his mouth. “I need you.” Sherlock says, eyes skimming over the lines of the doctor’s face, trying to find doubt around his mouth, in the depths of his eyes. He finds none.

“Can you get on your side for me, sweetheart?” John kisses his neck, just over his collar bone, and Sherlock forces his legs, apparently made of rubber, to move.

“That’s it, my lovely. I’m going to make you feel so good. You want that, don’t you? You’ve been so good, today.” John’s lips form words, as he shifts to lay behind him, chest pressed to his back, knees in the crook of Sherlock’s knees, his cock hot and heavy against the small of his back. “I know how difficult it was, darling.”

John’s voice is as soft as the kisses against Sherlock’s spine, making his skin tingle and toes curl and his words wrap around his heart, gluing together what fingers have pulled apart. “When we met, when I had just moved in, and I heard you shooting the walls out of frustrating, when your mind was lacking input and buzzing with all those horrible thoughts, all I wanted to do was wrap you up in my arms, hold you, until you felt better.”

John hips are tilted forward, teasing them both as he presses up and against. “I’m sorry I didn’t, Sherlock. I promise, I will, in future. Always.”

Sherlock feels tears pricking in his eyes, as he pushes back against John, his voice is a little more than a huff of air. “Please.” He begs, the need to not only hear of his love, but feel it.

“I’m here.” John answers; and guides himself inside Sherlock’s body. His small, healing hand wanders from his hip to his belly and back, calming and arousing at the same time, as the pain of being filled adds to the pleasure that floods his body with every beat of his heart.

Inch by inch, John pushes in, thicker than his fingers had been, and he has to stop a few times and hold still, reading the tenseness in Sherlock before the detective himself knows it is getting too much to bear.

“I’ve got you.” He says, voice rough. And “You are beautiful.” And “I love you.” And “Sweetheart.”

For a moment, or it might be an eternity, Sherlock is unsure, his heart feels like bursting. He is so loved, by John Watson, loves so much. And a heart is too little an organ to hold all that love.

“Okay, darling?” John’s lips rest against his shoulder, and Sherlock should find it funny, that with their difference in height, John can’t reach any higher. Instead, all he can see, feel, are the strong arms wrapped around his middle, the chest that presses to his back soft and hard at the same time, reassuring.

“Yes.” He nods. “Move.”

“Bossy.” John smiles, then bites his shoulder, distracting him from the sting by rolling his hips for the first time.

The moan bursts from Sherlock’s throat, and he reaches behind himself to pull his husband closer, deeper inside him. They sway together, bodies laced with sweat as they seek pleasure and give it. Their bodies know their rhythm, having learned each other for months and months, and they don’t seem to mind that their roles are reversed.

And maybe, Sherlock thinks in one rare moment of clarity, before he gets pulled back into this slow, sensual dance that gives his mind a chance to rest and just feel, it doesn’t matter, which body parts are included, as long as they are making love.

Slow.

They move slow, breathing, feeling, teasing, pleasuring.

And Sherlock is ready to give in to the pull of orgasm, to let go and give himself over to John fully, knowing that his husband is there to catch him, hold him.

John has other plans, which Sherlock only realises, when the doctor pulls out. He is back, before Sherlock can grief the loss, pushing in, the head dragging against his inner walls and Sherlock welcomes him with a sigh of pleasure.

John has shifted behind him, his hand pulling Sherlock’s buttocks apart as he kneels on the mattress and Sherlock looks up at him.

John Watson could fight wars, rules empires, save the world. Instead, he is making love to Sherlock Holmes, skin shimmering in the dim light of the small lamp, the muscles of his belly and thighs quivering as he delivers thrust by thrust, cock nudging against his prostate, waves and waves of pleasure flooding him.

He feels John’s hands wandering up his thigh, until it rests in the crook of his knees, pushing them up, until Sherlock feels he is bent in half, John hovering over him, his weight resting on one arm. They are not slow anymore, as they move, John thrusting into him and Sherlock meeting him as best as he can.

His heart, filled with love, thumps in his chest, as if it wants to escape his rib cage with sheer force, and his cock throbs, heavy and neglected against his belly, Sherlock only now seeming to remember that it too wants to be touched. He wraps long fingers around it, thumb and forefinger forming a tight circle just below the head, and he fucks into it with every time John buries himself in his body.

“Are you close, baby.” John rasps, and that small word, this endearment he has never heard before, gets him right there. He reaches out to bury his fingers in John’s hair, to pull at it as he comes. It is soft, just as John’s eyes, and Sherlock lets go.

He barely registers John’s words, whispers, but is grateful for his voice slipping to the fog of lust, as he paints his hand and belly with cum.

“So good, darling. God, you are beautiful.” John whispers, and Sherlock lets go of his hair, body drained of all power now that he has returned from the heights of orgasm.

“What about you?” Sherlock slurs, eyes closed, already half asleep. He feels John pull out, missing him immediately, is being manhandled onto his back, and John’s lips are on his neck, warm and wet.

“This is about you.” John says. “You’ve been so good to me, and I can only try to give back.” 

The detective feels his lips pull into a smile. “Idiot.” He mumbles, and John chuckles, kisses him.

“Though, I’d be happy to rub myself against your belly a bit. Make even more of a mess.” Teeth nibble as his jaw, as the crown of John’s dick nudges at his belly button, and the doctor moans. He doesn’t wait for an answer, knows he doesn’t have to, as he finds a rhythm, leaving trails of precome against Sherlock’s skin, and Sherlock forces his eyes open to witness his husband, hands cupping his balls and the base of his cock, almost purple as it swells one final time.

“John…My mouth.” Sherlock cups his head in his hands to kiss him. “Use my mouth.”

The doctor goes rigid above him, eyes screwed shut, and Sherlock knows he is close, barely holding back. Neither of them move, for a moment, before John opens midnight eyes, dark with lust. “Are you sure?”

Sherlock nods, lazily smiling up. “Very sure.”

John scrambles up the bed, and they shift, until his thighs frame Sherlock’s shoulders, the delicious head of his cock hovering just over the detective’s mouth, making it water. He licks his lips and watches the gesture do things to John’s face, lines shifting and deepening. “Not gonna take long.” John states, as he sits up a bit.

“Don’t care.” Sherlock is getting impatient, both wanting to taste and finally have John hold him and sleep, so he lifts his head from the pillow and kisses the slit, letting John’s cock rest against his lips, drinking the moan that escapes his husband’s throat.

It is quick, after that, John’s hands in his hair and against his cheeks, as he opens up to take him in, hot flesh filling his mouth with the taste of salt and John, throat closing around the invader as he enters and pulls back, once, twice, a third time, and then John goes still, Sherlock’s nose pressed against his skin, tears prickling in the detective’s eyes. It is too much, and perfect, still, how John fills him, hot, how me grunts in pleasure, takes his pleasure from Sherlock’s body.

And then he gives, again, words of apology, for being to rough, providing a strong chest for Sherlock to be pulled against as he coughs, and later a warm flannel to clean him off.

“Are you alright, love?” John asks, when they lie there in the darkness of their bedroom, snuggled up under the duvet.

“Thank you.” Sherlock says, hoping even an idiot like John can understand. “For taking care of me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The earth is back on its axis, the fandom has top!john back :P


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock wakes up to the sound of his phone vibrating on the bedside table, and for a moment gets distracted by John shifting in response to Sherlock’s own movement. He does not wake, and Sherlock takes in the sight of his glorious back and arse as the sheets are tangled somewhere at their feet. John sleeps on his belly, his breath tingling Sherlock’s neck, an arm lazily thrown over the detective’s chest, Sherlock has to slip out from underneath it to sit up, even though he would much rather stay and wake his husband with slow kisses, press himself against his back and maybe…

His cock is very interested in that idea, and Sherlock refrains from squeezing it, instead picking up his phone. Just like he suspected, it’s Lestrade, who has probably just waited long enough to be sure they have returned to London, before involving him in a case.

The detective slips out of bed, not for the first time having to choose between John and his work, a choice that is made easier by John being part of the work, necessary to it. Sherlock puts the kettle on to ease John’s mind with a cuppa before he wakes him up, his brain more than pleased to get some input, finally.

John turns his head into the pillow, when Sherlock leans over him, whispering into his ear. “Case, John.” He feels himself grin, getting more excited about getting out into the streets of London. His brain needs the input, needs the thrill of the chase, with John at his side.

“Hmmpff.” John says, but he sits up, hair ruffled and eyes small, and Sherlock kisses his forehead.

“A missing piece of jewellery in connection with the royal family.”

“Why does it have to be today?”

Sherlock kisses him again, before he gets a new suit out of the wardrobe, choosing the light grey shirt. “We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”

“Fuck off.” John mumbles, throwing a pillow in his general direction and Sherlock dodges just in time to avoid getting hit.

Twelve minutes later, John is standing in front of 221 Baker Street next to Sherlock, their arms touching as the detective hails a taxi.  Sherlock turns his head to look at the man beside him, the doctor, the soldier, whom he has observed a thousand times before. He is different today, he holds himself in a different way than he did a week ago. Sherlock knows John insists on categorizing himself as a broken man, thinks that maybe all humans are to a degree. This, if you ask Sherlock, can be turned into something positive. John, the broken doctor, consists of small pieces, pieces that shift and blend together and break apart creating new mysteries for Sherlock to unravel, more aspects to discover and catalogue, never the same, never boring, and always with the intent of creating the best possible John. 

If he can help them to do that, Sherlock is happy to do so, grateful even, because every piece of John Watson loves Sherlock. He loves his experiments and the work, he loves Sherlock even when he annoys him, angers him, hurts him. He loves him enough to make him father to his daughter, and promise him forever by wearing his ring.  They promised that to each other a week ago, but they have known it for years, since that turbulent day in January.

Sherlock thinks that he can’t wait to start this new adventure as he gets into the cab, John right behind him. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This is my 40th fan fiction :O 
> 
> Thank you for your patience in waiting for this sequel. For months, I've not been feeling too good, which reflected in all my attempts in writing. This, a sequel I'm very happy with, shows that I'm better now and that makes me grateful. Thank you all for reading, for your comments, your praise and helpful criticism. 
> 
> I hope you have as much fun reading, as I had writing it and I hope you are not disappointed that it is a bit shorter than the first part. I just think all is said in this series


End file.
